Ron Taylor: Teacher_s naughty wife

It was three minutes after twelve when Joanne entered the outer reception room, the antechamber to the cubbyhole offices provided for non-tenured instructors and assistant professors. The girl who manned the reception desk was out to lunch, apparently, and Joanne marched past, peering down the corridor. The only office that was lit appeared to be her husband's. Probably copy-editing a lecture on the short stories of Ernest Hemingway. All he ever thought about was his job, his work. He spent late evening at the library researching topics he wanted to mention in class, rushing off first thing in the morning to be on tune for his students. Well, she thought, you deserve a break today, Thomas L. Hickman, and you are going to get it.

She considered the options. She could march to his office, rap on the door, and gain admittance. Or – Joanne turned, saw the intercom on the reception desk. She smiled. No, she thought. I'll let him come to me. She went to the desk, leaned her hip against the side, and she pushed the button marked 7, the number of her husband's office.

The only thing she could assume was that he'd forgotten to shut off his squawk box the last time he'd been buzzed from the reception desk. She pushed the button which flicked the box into life and she didn't even have time to lean down and purr a sultry message for her husband's ears. The box chattered into life and Joanne's heart nearly stopped beating.

"Tom, baby, please, oohhh, you're squeezing too hard, you're hurting my tithes! Don't be so rough, baby. You know you can have them any time you want. Let me straddle your lap. Oooohh, Jesus! Have you got a flashlight in your pants or are you just glad to see me, honey bunny?"

Joanne leaned on the desk, shocked. The strange voice continued.

"Bite me! Bite my little nipple. Feel how it gets fat and hard when you bite it? Now lick it. Use your tongue on me, you old cocker! My old cocker, sweet cocker, hard cocker, big cocker… suck me! Do you know that if you suck a woman long enough, she'll make milk in her titties, even if she's never had a baby? I wonder how long that has to be? Seems like I ought to have tits full of milk, the way you eat them up, you dirty old man. Sweet dirty old man. Let me squash down on your big itchy dick. Don't you just ache inside, ache for wanting to put your prick up me? Maybe I won't let you do it today. What do you think of that? Damn you, biting my nipple isn't any kind of answer! Take your mouth off and talk to me, Tommy baby!"

Tommy baby? There was a churning in Joanne's stomach and a sour taste at the back of her mouth, and she felt as if she were going to vomit all over the carpeted floor.

"If you won't let me put my cock in you," Tom replied, "if you won't let me, maybe I'll just bend you over and slide those tight pants down your sweet ripe ass and shove it up you anyway. What do you think of that, Miss Honeybun?"

Honeybun? Miss Honeybun? And Tommy baby? Joanne knew she was going to be sick. She raised her fist to her lips, pressed it down hard, anything to stifle the scream she felt rising in her throat.

"Why do you wear such tight jeans?" Tom was saying. "I don't like it, you strutting around with your ass on display."

"Mmmm, yeah," the female voice answered, "but just think of it this way – all those people looking at my ass and none of them can have it, none of them except my own sweet big cock professor. Mmm, honey, do I get an A for that?"

"An A for ass, the sweetest, juiciest ass ever! Let me unbutton you. Stand up. I want to pull your pants down. I want to smell your cunt and get ray finger in it and suck your juices off. You're not wearing panties, you slut! Let me get a fistful of that fresh hairy pie. God, you're dripping! Your pussy feels like a hot river, flowing onto my hands."

"Is that how Hemingway would have described it?" the girl asked, her voice taking on a tinny, almost adolescent innocent quality. But the laugh at the end of her question spoiled the effect, unless the laugh was the effect she aimed for.

"Fuck Hemingway!" Tom said hoarsely.

"Fuck Hemingway?" the girl replied. "I thought you wanted me to fuck you!" And again that adolescent voice broke into a knowing giggle. A giggle that turned into a long, succulent moan. "Oh, Lord, crook your finger again! I think I'm gonna come!"

"You'll come when I'm ready to let you come," Tom answered, "and that will be when dump a gallon of sticky cum up your tubes, baby, not before. Yeah, wiggle out of those pants. Kick them out of the way. When I get tenure, I'll have a bigger office, we won't have to put up with cramps. Mmmm, your snatch is so tight and wet and juicy, I want to eat it all up! Maybe when I get tenure we'll be together, you and me. All the time. Not just when we sneak around. Do you like that idea? Crimp your pussy if you like it. Ouch! You can stop crimping! I think you're trying to break my finger! I'll bet you could crack walnuts in that hole of yours, couldn't you?"

"Put your walnuts in me and find out," the girl giggled. "But why do I have to take my pants off and you get to keep yours on, hmmm?"

Joanne heard the clicking of a belt, and she knew what was happening. The voices on the intercom didn't have to give it to her in vivid detail, detail that would make the whole thing as clear as if she were in that cramped little office with them, with her husband this – this girl, this – whoever, whatever she was. Joanne felt her legs weakening and she eased against the edge of the desk, unsure whether she'd ever be able to stand up again.

She could have turned off the buzz-box. Sure. She could have gone tome and pretended that she hadn't heard anything. Yeah. She could shit purple and walk around the world on her hands with her legs kicking in the air, too. Her face was going pale, then beet-red, and sweat bubbled on her forehead, leaking out from under her tousled hair. She could feel perspiration forming in her armpits, too, and in the cleavage between her tits. It was fear-sweat, and she was sure she could sniff its rank, tense aroma despite her deodorant and talcum and cologne.

She heard more clinking and clacking, and she could close her eyes and see it all as clearly as if she were watching it. Tom spreading his legs, the giggling girl pulling down his pants. And his cock springing up, a big red lance of erected gristle, capped by a sweet fat knob of purple flesh.

"Suck me!" Tom moaned, and there was an intensity in his voice that chilled Joanne, left her numb and shaking. She'd heard him say that before, many times, but not lately. And – my God, she thought – can this be the reason? Is it his job that's taken away his sex drive, or – God – is it this other woman?

Did she even have to ask? Wasn't the answer so obvious?

"Suck my cock! Bite it! I want to fuck you in the heart, I want to shove my dick down your throat until I touch bottom, I want you to swallow me, all of me, Jesusssssss!"

"Love it," the girl mumbled, and it was difficult to understand what else she was saying. Joanne blanched when the reason for that occurred to her. The girl had a mouthful of dick. Joanne's stomach twitched again. She knew she was going to be sick, knew it, knew it, knew it. If she could only lean over, pull that wastebasket close… she couldn't.

Her head was swimming and she blinked, rapidly, trying to clear away the blurs that wiggled across her field of vision.

"Love you," Tom said, huskily, throatily. "Really love you. Look up at me. Smile. I like to see you smile around my cock while you're sucking it. Know what I like even better? To see you smile when I ram it up your pussy and start to fuck you silly. Get up. I can't wait. If I don't get it in your cunt, I'm gonna blow my nuts down your throat, and I need to fuck you, baby, really need to fuck you!"

"Not half as much as I need to get fucked!" the girl purred, her throat not clogged now, her words coming out loud and clear.